Not Everything Is As It Seems
by bdrake07
Summary: AU, Deathly Hallows Spoilers. Voldemort's daughter is hell-bent on avenging her father's death, and her plans to kill Harry Potter just happen to include a certain red-haired Weasley. FW/HG, HP/GW, Slight RW/LB, Slight DT/LL. Rated T for Language. HIATUS
1. Prologue

**Title: **Not Everything Is As It Seems

**Author: **bdrake07

**A/N: **Okay, so this is my first multi-chapter fic with an actual story, so I'm kinda nervous about it. Here's the prologue, and it's kind of boring and kind of wordy, but it's basically just there to set up the story. **Important things to know...**

In case it isn't clear, Cobra Riddle is Voldemort's daughter. I haven't figured out the particulars, but just know that that's who she is.

I'm trying to keep track of which Death Eaters survived and which didn't. In case I made a mistake and accidentally resurected one, let's just call that AU.

Someone who supposedly died in Deathly Hallows is, in fact, not dead. Three guesses as to who.

I'm trying to keep as true to the books/movies as possible (excluding the relationship this focuses on, which is decidedly NON-canon), so any mistakes there are also just considered AU.

I jump around in time a little bit... usually you'll see a little heading like **Three Years Later**, but know that flashbacks usually come at the beginning of each chapter, with the exception of the prologue which takes place over two days.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter. I do own Cobra Riddle.

**

* * *

Prologue **

The moment the slam of a door echoed throughout the mansion, the woman sitting on the window seat at the back of the house knew what had happened at the Battle at Hogwarts. It was one of those things people with an extraordinary connection could just _tell_—and she could just tell that it was as over for her father as it would ever be.

It came as no surprise, therefore, when Rodolphus Lestrange relayed the events in a slightly strangled voice, repressing his reaction of not only his wife's death but his leader's with difficulty. She had seen this coming, just as she saw nearly everything else coming. Two years ago, her father had raged endlessly upon her for her inability to foresee a certain prophecy. But it was in that same year that she had accurately predicted what was happening on this very night.

Although her father's only hope had been demolished by a simple mistake, it was by no means over. As tribute to his memory, she promised herself that she would indeed finish what he had set out to do... destroy Harry Potter.

But first, she planned to have a little fun.

Several of the Death Eaters brought the boy in, his chest rising and falling steadily despite large, clumsily bandaged gashes on his chest and head. Mulciber, holding the boy's ankles tightly in his hands, called uncertainly from over his shoulder as he shuffled backwards into the room.

"Where do you want 'im?"

"The basement should do just fine." She replied absentmindedly as Lucius Malfoy entered the house, defeat etched in every line on his face—which happened to be many, she suddenly realized. She had never quite known his age. He glanced at her face, and saw what she had foretold, and his hope was quickly restored when he silently discovered she had already developed a new plan.

Mulciber had stopped just four feet into the hall. From the darkness, his disembodied voice sounded.

"The basement?" He repeated, sounding as if he did not quite understand what a basement was. The woman rolled her eyes.

"Where he won't be _found_." She said slowly, as if speaking to a small child, unable to contain the agitation from her tone.

Mulciber and Augustus Rookwood, who gripped the boy under his armpits, continued down the hall noisily. A door slammed from far away and the woman turned back to the expectant group in front of her. She inhaled deeply, preparing herself.

"You may think it is over." She addressed them, almost accusingly, as if it was ridiculous for any thought even remotely similar to cross their minds. "You may think that _Harry Potter_—" She spat the name out— "has won." She paused to stare at each of them in turn, attempting to convey all of her rage and frustration at the injustice of their loss in one simple look.

"He. Has. Not." She added forcefully. "There is a reason why we have brought _him_ here."

The Death Eaters who were gathered in the room glanced behind her at the pitch black hallway through which Mulciber and Rookwood had taken the limp body.

"You have a plan, then." Rodolphus stated darkly, already knowing the answer. She nodded, not in any particular direction, before continuing.

"I've seen what we must do."

"And this is part of your plan, then?" Lucius spoke up suddenly, from the corner of the room. His tone wasn't accusatory; it was filled with more curiosity than anything else.

"What, the boy?" The woman scoffed. "Of course, why else would I have brought him here? Why else would I have saved his life?"

She had a point; there was no other reason why she would have given the order to retrieve him in the first place, unless he held some greater value in her master plan. But she seemed to conduct her speech to them as if they already knew all of the details, when in fact her followers had no idea what she and her father had discussed before his death.

"We're going to kill Potter, that's a given." A soft smile crossed her face, and they knew it was because she delighted in the thought of Harry Potter, dead at her feet. She looked around at each of them. "But first, why don't we turn his friends against him?" She suggested, her grin growing wider, even more malicious.

"Why him?" Asked a dumbfounded Selwyn. "Why not the girl?" He thought for a moment, at first appearing to have forgotten the name, but then seeming to struggle with letting such an apparent abomination pass through his lips. With a final expression of disgust, he finished, "Ginny Weasley... wouldn't she affect Potter more?"

"We had a chance, and we took it." She said impatiently. "Two years ago, we had the perfect opportunity, and I knew it would benefit us later..." She paused, correcting herself. "_Now_."

There was a change rippling through the room. It had suddenly dawned on them that this woman was their new leader, and she was not a force to be reckoned with. How could she not be? She was the daughter of the former most powerful wizard in their world, and now, they had just realized, she was in charge.

"M-my Lady." Selwyn stammered, the new title sounding incredibly foreign on his lips. She looked rather surprised at the way he addressed her.

"My Lady," He repeated, stronger, with more confidence. "What would you have us do?"

She smiled at him, almost kindly, as if she was a schoolteacher praising an intelligent student for answering a particularly difficult question correctly. Patting him quickly on the head, she moved down the row of Death Eaters gathered against the wall.

She slowed at the end of the line, pausing slightly before Lucius Malfoy and glancing up at him sideways, in deep thought, biting her pinky nail absentmindedly. He watched her, the shadow of amusement on his face.

Then, with a quick and almost invisible shake of the head, she took one more step forward and stopped in front of the smaller Death Eater standing next to Lucius. Now that she stood in front of him- although he towered a good six inches above her- she saw the fear creeping onto his long, pale face.

"Oh," Her lips curled upward slightly as she spoke, a smirk emerging. "I can think of a thing or two."

* * *

It was an extraordinarily cold morning in August when the cloaked figure stepped from the stoop of the dark, massive manor behind him. A pure white peacock strutted across his path, but he paid it no mind. He continued through the enchanted gate and down the road, at an easy, deliberate pace, until he reached the crossroads ahead. The second the manor was out of sight, he broke into a frantic run.

From the shadowy window of the manor, a second silhouette watched in quiet discontent, a frown etched upon his face as he leaned slightly on his cane, his hand clenched tightly around the ornate snake's head at the top. Somehow he knew that a change of pace had been made; he was aware of the other figure's intentions—the assignment the boy had been sent to do would not be completed.

Instead, Lucius Malfoy had the impression that he was about to be betrayed.

"Oh, cool your wand." Lucius turned sharply from the window as he heard the voice, a smirk evident in its tone. "He's taken an Unbreakable Vow, Lucius. And even if there _is_ something we overlooked, he'll never get out of Azkaban once he's turned himself in." Despite the lax effort to console him, Lucius was not reassured.

"Be that as it may, my Lady," Lucius replied, attempting unsuccessfully to contain the anger in his words, "He was still _my_ responsibility. And he has now betrayed _me_."

The woman moved from where she had been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, and stepped closer to the window. She pulled back the heavy drapes that covered all but a tiny sliver of the glass with a flick of her black wand, and the room was bathed in a blue-gray light from the cloudy sky.

"I don't know why you keep it so dark in here." She pouted, seemingly ignoring his previous comment. "I'm so awfully afraid I'm going to trip over something."

Lucius did not respond, but instead chose to resume his former position, staring out the window as if he expected the figure to come running back.

"Don't look so put out." The woman commanded. Her words might as well have been followed by something along the lines of "or else", but Lucius knew this was an empty threat. Even so, he faced her again, looking into her unusual black eyes.

She was short, somewhere around five foot two from what he could estimate, and her hair, ending just an inch or so below her shoulders, was also a strange jet black, giving the appearance that it was one, single, helmet-like thing instead of millions of thin hairs. Her outfit, as always, left little to the imagination. She was dressed in a shimmering purple corset, with ragged black sleeves that fell off her shoulders. Her skirt was just as torn and tattered, and it was hard to tell where her black leggings stopped and her long, buckled boots began.

She was pretty, Lucius was quite aware, but it was a bit disconcerting for a woman with a body and face like hers—mature, albeit in a pleasing manner—to act so much like a spoiled child. As she stared up at him, willing him to erase his frown, he could see in her eyes that she was under the impression that he was actually intimidated.

But another thing Lucius knew very well was that none of them feared her in the least anymore. It was respect and legacy alone that kept her followers by her side. Lucius and his kind had a duty to finish, and they would see that it was done- or they would die trying.

"Lucius..." She breathed, and quite suddenly her black eyes had darkened, if that were possible, with an unexpected and impulsive lust for him. She stood on the tips of her toes in an attempt to lean closer. "Relax. Don't worry about him..." Her arm snaked up to grip his shoulder and rub it gently, "He's not worth the trouble."

She had finally hit the nail directly on the head—Lucius was not at all concerned about the well being of the rapidly departing figure; in fact it was quite the opposite. But although Lucius's mind was, for a feeble second, locked upon her realization of his true feelings, he could not ignore her unwanted actions. It did not matter how much of his loyalty her predecessor had held.

"My Lady," Lucius responded to her advances in a steady, deliberate voice.

"Call me Cobra." She cooed, the authority melting quickly away from her.

"I think it would be best," Lucius calmly picked up the hand that was currently resting on his shoulder and dropped it, "_Cobra_, if we maintain a fully professional relationship."

For a moment, he half expected her to be stung by his rejection. But he realized all too quickly that it wasn't in her nature as she shrugged, shooting him one last half-hearted, slightly hopeful look before flouncing away towards the door.

She turned back in the doorway, and, quite suddenly reverting to an exceptionally mature disposition, stated, "I wouldn't worry. We've got the boy, and everything's going according to plan excluding _his_—" she jerked her head towards the front door— "crisis of confidence." Lucius nodded to confirm his understanding, though he was not comforted by her words.

Smiling tightly one last time, Cobra's figure melted into the dark hallway like a ghost into a dense fog.

* * *

_So cowardice turns out to be my thing, _the boy thought sullenly as he ran down the dirt covered lane, away from the mansion that he had so often called home. After this, however, he figured his days of being able to call anywhere home had come to an end.

What was it, only a day ago, that Cobra had asked him to do a simple chore? Pick up a set of black robes and a nondescript wand for their new prisoner. Yet now he found himself running frantically past the robe shop, down to the end of the lane, desperate to find someone, _anyone_...

It was stupid, really. He was fleeing from an ordinary errand. She had asked him to do the simplest thing, and he had become as skittish as a frightened cat. It was just... it added up to so much more...

And even Draco Malfoy knew where to draw the line.

The town was full of people on a Sunday, out doing their own errands and simply living their day to day lives, a spring in their step. They were under the ignorant impression that it was all over, that the world was going back to being safe. Draco allowed himself a quick smirk and their naivety. They hadn't even a clue that one of the dreaded Lord Voldemort's followers was passing them at that very moment, that the headquarters of the Death Eaters was the mansion just up the lane.

Draco couldn't believe this town. What was wrong with them? He had yet to cross paths with any sort of authority at all. Were the wizards of the world really so gullible that they believed they didn't need protection, when another war was brewing right under their noses?

But even as Draco scoffed at this, he felt himself running into a solid figure.

"Watch your step, son. Are you all right?" A deep voice said from above him. A steady hand had placed itself on his shoulder. Draco looked up into deep brown, very familiar eyes.

"Draco Malfoy?" The eyes widened, incredulous. Draco suppressed a sigh of relief and mustered his courage, planting a signature smirk on his face as Kingsley Shacklebolt stared at him in disbelief.

"That's right," He said defiantly, wrenching his shoulder away from Kingsley's hand, trying to make it look as if he were about to run. "Long live the Dark Lord," He threw in snidely.

Kingsley's brow furrowed, and he suddenly reached out and grabbed Draco's arm in a firm, unyielding grip.

"I think I'd better be taking you to the Ministry." With his other hand, Kingsley pulled his wand from the folds of his robes. "Can I assume you'll come quietly?" He nodded his head, referencing the gathering onlookers just over Draco's shoulder.

Draco clenched his jaw and nodded tightly, attempting to plaster his face with a look of pure hatred. He must have succeeded, because Kingsley's frown deepened still and he held out his hand. Draco obliged, pulling his wand from his pocket and placing it in Kingsley's outstretched hand. Kingsley turned to leave, pulling Draco roughly with him.

"You know what you have done." Kingsley muttered darkly. Draco nodded his head remorsefully, knowing Kingsley couldn't see him.

Instead he said, "I'm not sorry; they deserved it. Throw me in Azkaban for all I care."

Kingsley spun around quickly and his grip on Draco's arm tightened painfully. "I am sure that is exactly what the Ministry plans to do," he said through gritted teeth. He turned abruptly away, yanking Draco along behind him.

Draco couldn't help but look back up the lane as Kingsley pulled him towards the outskirts of town, where no doubt a broom or a secluded spot for apparition was located. So he was finally rid of it all. Running away had worked; cowardice _had_ turned out to be his thing.

Draco didn't fancy himself a hero, even if he was risking his life in more ways than one by doing this. But if he could convince the Ministry to give him just one visitor in Azkaban, just _one_, then maybe he could find a way out.

No, Draco wasn't a hero. He was about to make a deal for his freedom, and all that made him was a selfish coward. But he didn't mind being a coward. He had come to terms with this fact a long time ago, perhaps when he had failed to kill Dumbledore that night on the Astronomy tower.

So Draco didn't mind running. He just would have preferred it if he wasn't running to Harry Potter.

_end prologue._


	2. Chapter One

**Title: **Not Everything Is As It Seems

**Author: **bdrake07

**A/N: **In this chapter... a catfight! Yep, starts getting AU right from the get-go.

One thing I do that is really bad is switch POV in the middle of sections... just be aware of that. I try not to do it, but there's really no other way to tell the story without repeating myself.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter One**

Harry Potter stared ruefully at the sausage on his plate. It wasn't enough that some maniac had put his name into the Goblet of Fire, nor that his best friend, Ron Weasley, wasn't speaking to him because of it. It wasn't enough that he had tripped while walking into the Great Hall earlier, right in front of Cho and a bunch of the Beauxbatons girls.

No, in fact what had Harry staring murderously at his breakfast plate was the fact that somehow all the tables had gotten mixed up, and the Slytherins had taken up residence right next to the Gryffindors, giving Harry a direct line of sight to Malfoy's pretentious smirk.

He stabbed the sausage savagely.

"Is it Ron again?" Hermione Granger sighed, and Harry looked up to see his other best friend take the seat right across from him, effectively blocking his view of Malfoy. "You two have got to sort this thing out."

Harry rolled his eyes. "That's only part of the problem," he said around a mouthful of food. Hermione ignored his rudeness, helping herself to a bowl of porridge. Harry didn't miss the meaningful glance she shot at Ron, who was sitting a few feet down the table with Dean and Seamus.

"Let it go, will you?" He said quietly. Hermione frowned at him, but said nothing.

"Well, this is cheery." Harry heard a voice behind him and turned to see Ron's twin brothers, Fred and George, both wearing identical lazy grins. Each took a seat on either side of him.

"Nothing like a good morning sulk to start your day off right," George continued. Harry didn't respond, well aware that Ron was watching.

Fred glanced over Harry's head rather conspicuously before nodding. "Ah," he said knowingly, leaning across the table to steal a piece of Hermione's toast. "You're still fighting with our darling brother."

"Yes," Hermione answered firmly before Harry even had a chance to think about answering. "And it's getting ridiculous."

"Come off it, Hermione!" Harry said loudly, throwing his hands up into the air. "I know you want everything to go back to normal, but stuff just doesn't happen like magic!"

There was a pause. Then instead of tearing up or losing her temper, Hermione did something completely unexpected. She laughed, a little girlish giggle completely unlike her that prompted her hand to fly up and cover her mouth sheepishly.

"I'm so sorry," She said shakily, sobering at their confused stares, "But did you hear what you just said, Harry?"

Harry replayed the moment in his head, reaching the part that Hermione had obviously found so funny. Before he could open his mouth to tease her, someone else beat him to the punch.

"Got your teeth fixed, Granger?" Malfoy's snide voice filtered over from the Slytherin table, wiping the growing grin from Harry's face instantly. The twins' expressions had also darkened considerably.

Hermione flinched, but didn't turn. "Leave it." She whispered desperately to the boys across from her.

"Too bad," Malfoy continued, reveling in the jeers of his classmates. "You always did do a really good impression of a beaver."

"Oi!" Hermione shot Harry an exasperated stare, but it was Ron who had spoken. "You leave her alone!"

"Shut up, weasel." Malfoy returned venomously; Ron's outburst was obviously unexpected. The Durmstrang students sitting at the table were looking around in slight confusion.

Fred raised his eyebrows. "Better than a ferret," he said wryly. Malfoy's expression turned to that of hatred as the Gryffindor table erupted in laughter. Hermione rolled her eyes, the shadow of a smile on her face, and turned back to her porridge.

But Malfoy, it seemed, was not to be deterred.

"You _would_ defend a Mudblood, Weasley," he spat out. "That sort of filth wouldn't bother you if you'd been living in it your whole life..."

George's head snapped up quickly, Harry clenched his jaw ferociously, and Ron was gripping a butter knife so tightly his knuckles were white. Fred wasn't sure what was coming over him, but hearing Malfoy insult Hermione like that, never mind the blow to his own family, had evoked a hot, angry pressure in his chest. His hands fisted as they rested on the table. Hermione looked terrified as she whispered again, "It's fine, leave it, I don't care..."

"But then again," Malfoy continued vindictively, his smirk back now that he had the upper hand, "I have to say that I pity you. I don't think I could stand such a _bitch_—"

Several things happened quite suddenly. Fred impulsively lunged across the table, grabbing Malfoy as he flew past and pulling him to the ground, dishes of food and various cutleries following them. Harry, George, and Ron were not far behind as Harry's full breakfast plate soared into the air, landing perfectly atop Lavender Brown's head with a resounding _clang_. Hermione shrieked as the boys charged past her, and there was a commotion at the other side of the room as the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws leapt to their feet, running over to catch a glimpse of the fight.

Fred was grappling with Malfoy, the two of them rolling around on the floor. George was locked in combat with Goyle, who had a thick arm wrapped around George's neck. Harry and Ron were mounting a double attack against Crabbe, who was thrashing his massive fists wildly.

"Oh, stop it!" Hermione cried hopelessly, sounding very much like the damsel in distress. "Ron—Fred—"

None of them paid her any mind; instead a heavy kick came very close to her leg, and Hermione quickly jumped up on top of the bench. From across the hall she could see Filch and his one-legged gait leaving the hall, no doubt to find a conveniently missing teacher. Even the prefects were standing idly by.

"Honestly, all of you—" Hermione began, but she didn't get far. George's flailing foot made contact with the bench with a sickening crack, and Hermione, shrieking, found herself quite suddenly on the floor and in the thick of it.

Before she could even struggle to her knees, Hermione felt a sharp pain at the back of her head. She was pulled backwards, crying out, as Malfoy's clenched hand barely missed her face. Turning with difficulty, she glimpsed Pansy Parkinson's pug-face and her fingers tangled tightly in her hair.

"Get off me!" Hermione yelled in disbelief, swiping at Pansy's face and hitting her with an audible _smack_. Pansy screamed in outrage, clawing at Hermione, who settled for shoving Pansy away from her harshly.

"You bitch!" Pansy screeched, lunging at Hermione. From somewhere far away, Hermione thought she could hear Dean and Seamus chanting her name as Pansy's fingernails approached her face, but suddenly a strong hand was pulling her up by the back of her shirt, and she found herself breathing heavily as she stared into the eyes of Victor Krum.

"Are you all right?" He asked in a deep voice, steadying her. Hermione nodded, her face flushed. She was only slightly aware that the boys were still engaged in fisticuffs on the floor, Pansy having vanished under the dog pile.

"I think so," She said breathily. Krum held up a pair of shoes, and Hermione was a bit bewildered.

"I believe you dropped these," He handed the shoes to her, and she nodded slowly, suddenly realizing that she must have lost them somewhere in the fray. Her stocking feet felt very cold.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"

Hermione jumped, spinning to see Professor McGonagall striding purposefully towards the fighting boys, her face livid. to her left, Professor Snape was pushing his way past the Slytherin students.

"ALL OF YOU, FREEZE!" McGonagall bellowed.

If Hermione hadn't just been attacked, she might have found the whole thing quite hilarious. Crabbe was leaning over Ron, his fist pulled back, as Ron's hand pushed Crabbe's face away from him. Harry seemed to have stopped in the midst of tackling Goyle from behind, whose face was twisted in a grimace as George held his arm behind his back. Fred and Malfoy, however, had separated, and were glaring at each other with matching looks of pure hatred.

"Gryffindors, my office now." McGonagall said, her voice low and dangerous. "_All_ of you." She looked pointedly at Hermione. "Slytherins, if you'll follow Professor Snape..."

The boys detached themselves, getting slowly to their feet. They looked a little worse for wear; George was sporting a bruised and bloody lip, Ron had suffered a black eye, and Harry was gingerly fingering a cut on his forehead. Fred was bleeding profusely from a gouge on his hand, inflicted by a fork-wielding Malfoy. Hermione didn't figure she looked much better.

They broke away from the Slytherins with a few last parting glares and trudged sullenly up to McGonagall's office. The moment they were all inside and seated, she slammed the door shut with a wave of her wand and turned to face them, anger still evident on her face.

"Now," she said forebodingly. "What happened?"

Everyone began talking at once.

"It was Malfoy, _he_ started the whole thing—"

"You should have heard the things he was saying, Professor—"

"And it really wasn't Hermione's fault at all..."

"—had no right to say all those things—"

"Enough!" McGonagall interrupted, her voice getting louder and more irritated. "Miss Granger, if you would kindly tell us what happened..."

Hermione stood shakily, still clutching her shoes, and began to explain the events leading up to the fight, beginning with Malfoy's insults. She was faintly aware of Fred's knuckles brushing lightly against the back of her leg as he gripped the edge of the couch. When she finished, she sat back down, and McGonagall looked at them all severely.

"I don't care _what_ Malfoy said about any of you." She began slowly. "We are the host school for the _Triwizard Tournament_. The behavior you showed today ultimately disgraced our school." She held up a hand as Fred opened his mouth, effectively silencing him. "No, Mr. Weasley, you need to learn to control your temper. You have all embarrassed Hogwarts in front of our distinguished guests."

Hermione's thoughts flashed to Krum for a moment, vaguely arriving at the conclusion that he hadn't been disgusted by the fight. In fact, he may have even given Malfoy a dirty look after he had begun insulting her...

"You can't just let Malfoy get away with trashing Hermione like that," Ron was protesting. McGonagall glared at him and he shut his mouth.

"No doubt Professor Snape is punishing them as they deserve," she said definitively. Harry scoffed.

"That's likely," he muttered.

McGonagall chose to ignore this, instead turning to face all of them. "I have no choice but to do the same," she said. "So I'm taking sixty points from Gryffindor, and you'll all have detention for a week."

"You're joking!" George blurted out. "_Sixty_?!"

"Detention for a _week_?!" Gasped Hermione.

McGonagall held up her hand again to quell their protests. "There's nothing you can say that will get you out of this," she said, "the decision is final. Be in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock tonight. Now get yourselves cleaned up and get back to class."

Hermione stumbled out of McGonagall's office in a state of shock. Behind her, George was still grumbling about the points, and Harry and Ron had fallen back into sullen silence, their moment of cooperation long forgotten. Hermione couldn't believe it, she had just been _defending_ herself...

"Would you shut up, George?" Fred snapped at his twin, irritated. "It's just sixty bloody points. Worth it to get in a good shot at Malfoy."

Hermione turned on her heel, anger bubbling up inside her. She was suddenly furious at Fred, this was entirely his fault.

"_Worth it_?" She repeated scathingly, clenching her hands into fists. "I've never been more embarrassed in my life!"

Fred didn't look sheepish, like she had expected. Instead, his face darkened. "Look, I'm sorry you got pulled into it, Hermione," he said, "but I was only defending you."

Hermione was a little surprised; she hadn't known that anyone was really aware of her altercation with Pansy. But she pushed it away in favor of her anger.

"Did I _ask_ to be defended?" She retorted, her voice rising.

"Did you _need_ to?" Fred countered, taking a step towards her.

"Malfoy's just a bully!" Hermione cried in frustration. "I _told_ you to let it go, and you didn't listen, you let your bloody temper get in the way—"

"Did you _hear_ what he was saying about you?!" Fred said disbelievingly. Hermione threw her head back, groaning in exasperation.

"Of course I did, but you didn't have to do anything about it!"

"I felt like I did!" Fred shouted.

They were a foot apart now, breathing heavily, glaring at each other. Ron, Harry and George stood around them, watching nervously. The tension crackled in the hall, as if something was building...

"You're a bloody idiot." Hermione hissed, seething.

And then it broke.

"And maybe Malfoy was right," Fred replied, his expression thunderous. "Maybe you are a bitch."

The moment the words left his mouth, Fred instantly regretted it. Hermione pulled back with shock written on her face, tears already springing to her eyes. Ron had taken an involuntary step forward, and Harry and George bore identical looks of distress.

"Hermione," Fred said pleadingly as she turned away, her posture straight and rigid. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"Yes, you did." She said stonily, walking away. She only got five feet before she stopped, turning slowly.

"Next time, I'm rooting for Malfoy," she said, her eyes flashing.

And Fred couldn't help it, he felt his anger rising again and his common sense failing (McGonagall was right, _damn_ his Weasley temper), and he heard his voice retorting before he could stop himself.

"Well, that's the last time I ever defend _you_."

George uttered a soft, cautionary "Fred..." as Hermione's face darkened with fury. She didn't think she had ever been angrier with anyone in her life. She felt the need to throw something as Fred spun and stalked away, all traces of remorse gone from him, but the only thing she had nearby was her pair of wayward shoes...

The loafer sailed perfectly through the air, whacking Fred squarely on the back of his head. Ron's mouth dropped open, stunned at Hermione's deadly aim, and her daring. Fred froze as the shoe clattered to the floor, and silence permeated the hallway.

"Yes," Hermione snarled before walking away, her shoes forgotten on the ground, "it is the last time."

* * *

**Three Years Later.**

For the past three months, the Burrow had been quiet.

There was nothing stirring, save for muted conversation and general restlessness, and nothing seemed to appease the occupants for long. It was a strange feeling, having nothing to do, yet not feeling able to stand being left alone with one's thoughts.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry's scar didn't pain him.

At the moment, Harry was holed up in the attic, as far away as he could get from the rest of the Weasleys, staring dejectedly out the tiny window at the gloomy scenery outside. It was raining, appropriately. The ghoul had been relocated to some other faction of the house, and so Harry was completely alone in the dark, cramped room, with nothing to occupy him but those bothersome thoughts he was better off avoiding.

This wasn't how Harry normally would have preferred to spend his afternoon, even a rainy one. But he hadn't had much of a choice.

It had all started with a stray t-shirt (but in truth it had started _much_ before that). It was a souvenir of Ron's from the Quidditch World Cup, so many years ago. The four of them—Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and himself—had enjoyed reminiscing about the game... the extraordinary victory of the Irish, Krum's shocking Wronski Feint. It was the first time since the Battle at Hogwarts that they had really laughed, and Harry was surprised at how naturally it came to him, and how _good_ it felt not to have anything else weighing on his mind.

And then they had arrived, quite unexpectedly, at the botched bet the twins had made with Ludo Bagman. It was he who had broached the subject, Harry remembered miserably, going from the Leprechaun gold they'd all stuffed greedily into their pockets to Fred and George's joint prediction that the Irish would be the victors, despite Krum snagging the snitch.

And with one name, everything had come crashing down.

Ginny's laugh had cut off suddenly; Ron had frozen in mid guffaw, a shadow passing over his face. Hermione's small, slightly disapproving smile had vanished, and she had fled abruptly from the room, followed closely by Ginny.

And Harry had found himself staring helplessly at Ron, without a clue what to say as his friend had sat wordlessly on the floor, the t-shirt forgotten in his fingers. Harry had backed slowly out of the room and had run to the attic, barricading himself inside.

He hadn't meant to bring it up, _him_ of all people. He was supposed to be sensitive to this sort of thing; after all, he'd been no stranger to loss. But something about finally vanquishing Voldemort had lifted a weight from Harry's heart, and it was easier to push thoughts like those away...

_Until now_, Harry thought as he stared dejectedly out the window. It was foolish, really, to assume they could've all carried on like this. It would only take the flash of a camera to remember Colin, the howl of a wolf for his mind to jump to Lupin. Harry felt a sick feeling in his stomach as he realized, with a fresh wave of pain, that none of them were coming back.

Not even the ones who had seemed invincible. Not Sirius, his purposeful godfather; not Dumbledore, his mentor, his teacher, and the one man Voldemort had feared... not Fred.

Harry leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane. August had been astonishingly cold so far, but it was fitting. He figured none of them had felt much warmth anyway, no matter what temperature it was outside.

There was a soft knock at the door and Harry pulled quickly away from the window to see Hermione slip into the attic. Her eyes were downcast and there were fresh tear-tracks on her face, but her voice was steady.

"Mr. Weasley's just got home from work," she said quietly, avoiding his gaze. "He says he's got something important to tell you."

Harry didn't say anything for a moment, not really hearing what she had said. His gut was busy bubbling with guilt, he felt horrible for opening his mouth so unthinkingly. Hermione finally lifted her eyes to meet his, squirming slightly under his penetrating stare.

"What?" She asked hollowly.

Harry looked at her remorsefully. "I just..." he croaked, "I'm sorry."

Hermione turned away from him quickly, brushing away a stray tear. "It's fine," she said. Harry, somehow, didn't believe her.

"No it's not," he pressed, "I know how you—"

Hermione cut him off sharply. "Don't, Harry." She sighed, sounding almost defeated. "I don't want to talk about it."

The silence fell between them again, awkward and filled with almost palpable melancholy. Harry shifted on his feet, hands shoved in his pockets.

"We should go," Hermione said finally, gesturing towards the door. "Mr. Weasley..."

"Right." Harry nodded.

The two of them made their way downstairs, where Mr. Weasley was waiting at the kitchen table. Behind him, Mrs. Weasley was wordlessly chopping carrots for a stew. Harry was nervous to discover that Ron and Ginny were occupying seats at the table as well.

Harry slid into the chair across from Mr. Weasley and cleared his throat.

"So, what's going on?" He asked anxiously.

Mr. Weasley looked at all of them in turn before answering slowly, his voice solemn and serious.

"Draco Malfoy's been taken to Azkaban," he said.

There was a commotion at the table. Harry sat bolt upright as Ginny gave an audible gasp and Ron's mouth fell open. Hermione was staring at Mr. Weasley, wide eyed, and in the kitchen Molly had stopped cutting carrots.

"_What_?!" Ginny breathed.

"And that's not all," Arthur said grimly. "He practically turned himself in."

Temporarily ignoring their looks of shock, he continued, recounting Kingsley Shacklebolt's story of literally running into Malfoy in the town near the manor, complete with Malfoy's cooperation and willingness to return with Kingsley to the Ministry.

"But that doesn't make any sense," Hermione frowned as Mr. Weasley finished. "Why wouldn't he fight?"

"He had a few choice things to say about our side, at least," Mr. Weasley replied, a tinge of anger evident in his voice. "Little comments about how great You-Know-Who was, and how we all..." he paused, his face contorting with pain and rage, "_deserved_ it."

Mrs. Weasley, who had since resumed chopping vegetables, froze, her back rigid, and Ron's hands formed fists on top of the table.

"Then again," Ginny spat out vehemently, "Malfoy's never been known for his bravery."

"So..." Harry said cautiously after a moment, the room still seemed to be reeling from the injustice of Malfoy's comments. "What does this have to do with us? What does it matter if Malfoy got caught?" _Good riddance_, he thought vaguely.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat apprehensively.

"Word's found its way to me at the Ministry that he wants to see _you_, Harry." He said carefully. Harry's eyes met Mr. Weasley's in surprise.

"Me?" He repeated. "Why would he want to see _me_?"

"He hates Harry," Ron interjected.

"Apparently not anymore." Arthur said, his eyebrows raised. "He's refusing to speak to anyone _but_ him."

Harry spluttered. "That's ridiculous!" Ginny, however, had crossed her arms, looking worried.

"You can't go, Harry." She said darkly. Harry turned to her, a little taken aback by the fierce expression on her face.

"It's pointless," she continued. "And it could be dangerous."

"You mean it could be a trap?" Harry frowned. "Hard to pull off in Azkaban."

"I don't care how hard it is," Ginny said determinedly, "you shouldn't go."

It was suddenly as if everything and everyone else in the room had dissolved, and it was just Harry and Ginny sitting almost side by side at the table, staring at each other. In her blue eyes, Harry thought he could see everything reflected—hope, fear, things unsaid, and that unyielding resolve of hers to get her way. Harry's mind wandered back to Dumbledore's funeral and moments after that, and he vaguely realized that, with Voldemort out of the way, it was safe for him to continue his relationship with Ginny...

"Isn't this Malfoy we're talking about?" Asked a flat voice, yanking Harry unpleasantly from his thoughts. He looked up and was surprised to see George standing in the doorway to the sitting room.

"George!" Harry didn't miss the hopeful expression that flitted across Mrs. Weasley's face before it was replaced with realization and slight embarrassment. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped towards him, her cheeks pink, saying, "We thought you were at the shop."

George ignored her, his eyes never leaving Harry's.

"This is Malfoy," he repeated. "Why the hell would he want to talk to Harry unless it was something really life-changing?"

His words rang in the uncomfortable silence that again settled over the room. Harry focused on a particularly odd-shaped blemish in the wood table, thinking hard. George had a point. Normally, Malfoy only spoke to Harry in conjuncture with an insult, whether it was a jab at his family or something as random as his personal hygiene. Harry didn't find it likely that the only reason Malfoy wanted to talk to him, and only him, was so that he could hurt Harry's feelings...

"I think you should go," said Hermione quietly. Ginny looked away in disapproval, but Ron, surprisingly, nodded his head.

"She's right, mate." He shrugged. "What harm could it do?"

Ginny opened her mouth, no doubt to give them several reasons why it was a bad idea, but shut it as Harry turned his eyes on her, looking apologetic.

"I think I have to go," he said.

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair, with everyone still mulling over the strangeness of Malfoy's request. After the dishes had been cleared and George had slipped stealthily away to the shop, Ron, Harry, and Hermione called it an early night and headed upstairs. Soon Molly and Arthur had departed to their own room, and Ginny was the last one left in the kitchen.

Ginny couldn't help but feel a little irritated at Harry's decision, as she sat alone at the table with a mug of tea. But she knew that, like her, once he had made up his mind there was no swaying him. Still, she was decidedly unhappy about Harry visiting Malfoy the next day.

She sighed as she stared into the dregs of her tea. She had a little niggling feeling in the back of her mind that assured her Malfoy was going to drag up something nasty, something complicated... after all, George was right. What other reason would Malfoy have?

This upset Ginny. The war had just ended, after all the years that Voldemort had tormented the wizarding world. The war had ended, and the Weasleys had lost a lot, but at least Harry was finally free. Ginny wasn't about to let Malfoy send him headlong into some other conflict, not when the two of them could finally be together...

Ginny looked up at the clock. She hadn't realized how late it had gotten. Most of the hands pointed to _In Bed_, but it was one in particular that caught her eye. Ginny's stomach twisted uncomfortably; Fred's was still pointing to _Lost_. Her mother still hadn't been able to bring herself to remove it.

Looking away from the clock, Ginny stood. She was pushing in her chair quietly and picking up her mug to wash it when she heard a creak on the stairs.

"Ginny," said a voice in surprise. "What're you doing up?"

Ginny turned to see Harry, and she felt the all too familiar swoop in her stomach that accompanied his presence. Ignoring it, she held up her mug wordlessly. "What about you?" she asked quietly. Harry shrugged.

"Couldn't sleep," he said. "Any more hot water?"

She nodded. He crossed the room and pulled a mug down from the cupboards, filling it with tea and hot water. Ginny hadn't moved, one hand still gripping the handle of the mug, and the other resting on the back of her vacated chair.

"Harry..." She ventured tentatively.

"Hmm?" He looked up from stirring his tea, his frowning slightly when he saw her expression. "What's wrong?"

Ginny swallowed and didn't say anything. Harry sighed.

"This is about Malfoy, isn't it." He said quietly. It was less of a question and more of a statement, and Ginny didn't bother to nod because she could see he already knew the answer.

"Listen, Gin." Harry abandoned his tea and walked around the table until he was facing her, placing his hands on her shoulders. The moment his skin brushed hers, Ginny felt the spark that she had missed so much, and she resisted the urge to just grab his face and kiss him.

"I know you don't approve of it, but I have to go," Harry said. "Malfoy could tell me something really important—"

"I know he will." Ginny said suddenly, meeting his eyes determinedly. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be stupid, Harry." Ginny scoffed. "I _mean_ that he's only forcing you to go down there to tell you some puppy's been kicked, and then you'll have to go and save it, because that's who you are."

Harry looked slightly outraged, his hands leaving her shoulders as he crossed his arms. "You think I go gallivanting off into danger for the hell of it?" He asked skeptically.

Ginny sighed. "No, Harry," She said tiredly. "I think you're the type of person who can't help but save the world."

Harry's expression softened a bit and he uncrossed his arms, leaving them hanging limply by his sides. Ginny studied him for a moment, and he studied her back.

"I'd have thought you'd be okay with that," he said finally.

He said it quite innocently, but Ginny felt a little stung, as if he were accusing her of something, of not supporting him faithfully. But there was a difference between supporting him faithfully and supporting him blindly, she thought, and she looked away from him, her eyes resting, quite unexpectedly, on the clock.

Fred... _Lost_.

Ginny wrenched her eyes away, letting out an involuntary, sudden sob. She hadn't cried this afternoon, not when Harry had accidentally said his name, and although the reminders just kept popping up, she hadn't yet thought about it, truly _realized_...

Harry's expression was that of faint panic as Ginny broke down.

"We were done," she whispered frantically, ashamed that she sounded as hysterical as she did. Harry stared at her, regretful and bewildered. "We were _done_, it was _over_, and they all _died_!"

Harry took a step forward as Ginny's voice rose, but she was shaking her head, tears pooling in her eyes.

"They all died, and then there was just one thing... just _one_ thing keeping me going, and that was the thought of finally being with you."

Harry stopped, a foot away from her, a distant flicker of understanding flashing in his eyes.

"And you think," He took a deep breath, "that whatever Malfoy tells me tomorrow will prevent you from doing that."

Ginny looked down, nodding. Something brushed her face and her head snapped up; Harry was tucking a strand of her bright red hair behind her ear.

"Voldemort's gone, Ginny." He said firmly, comfortingly. "And he took a lot with him when he left. Now that it's over, I can't imagine facing anything worse."

Ginny stared up at him, her lashes clumped with tears, her fingers gripping his arms. "So what does that mean?" She asked shakily.

"It means," Harry said seriously, cupping her cheek with his hand, "that nothing, and I mean _nothing_ is going to keep me from _this_."

And with that, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a passionate and long awaited kiss.

_end chapter one._


	3. Chapter Two

**Title: **Not Everything Is As It Seems

**Author: **bdrake07

**A/N: **Ah, here we are. The origins of the title. And, I have to say, I really don't like this chapter. Only the part with Malfoy.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Two**

Over the next two weeks, life became increasingly difficult for Hermione. The fight seemed to have no intentions of blowing over—almost everywhere she went she was accosted with cheers, or, in the case of the Slytherins, biting insults. Harry and Ron were still going strong with their own disagreement, leaving her to mediate. Harry's nerves were becoming more and more frayed the closer it got to the First Task, and despite him being the last person she wanted to see, Fred managed to be everywhere she was.

The only good thing that could have come from the whole mess was the fact that Malfoy and his cronies, including Pansy, hadn't yet dared to provoke any of them again. They had settled for glaring maliciously through black and blue, bruised eyes (which gave Hermione some sadistic comfort) from the Slytherin table. Several of the Durmstrang students, including Krum, had opted to join the Hufflepuffs (though it was unclear as to whether this was because of Malfoy, or because they simply didn't want to be the victims of another scuffle).

Hermione obviously wasn't the only one who was miserable. George, it seemed, was having a rough time with his temperamental twin. Hermione hadn't missed the exasperated look he had sent her way in the Common Room last Thursday, just after she had quickly vacated the couch he and Fred were about to sit on. Harry, Ron, and Ginny had each pulled her aside on various occasions to implore her to drop the cold shoulder she was regarding Fred with, which led Hermione to become increasingly indignant.

"Well, I don't see _you_ making up with Ron," She told Harry waspishly after he had confronted her, and didn't speak to him for the rest of the day. But with the First Task looming on the horizon, Hermione didn't have any choice but to help him; he had virtually no idea how he was going to tackle the dragons. She was becoming unbearably worried until Harry came to her with Moody's plan, and they got right to work practicing Summoning Charms.

But now, Hermione's stomach was again doing flips as she sat in the stands next to Ron, awaiting the start of the First Task. The stadium around her was buzzing with excitement, but she and Ron remained stony-faced and pale (Ron was even looking a little green). Harry was facing dragons—_dragons_—with only his wand and four years of magic under his belt. Hermione had complete faith in him, but she also had complete faith in the fact that dragons were classified as extremely dangerous by the Ministry of Magic.

"Oi, Hermione, Ron!" Came a joyous shout from behind them, and the two turned to see George, two stands up, grinning and lugging a vendor's box that was entirely too large.

"Placing bets," He continued loudly, and Hermione noticed with trepidation that Fred was standing next to him, decidedly looking anywhere else but their general direction. "Wanna put your money on Harry, then?"

Ron glared at him. "What money?" He said obviously, but George ignored him and focused instead on Hermione.

She shook her head, telling him she didn't bet, and made to turn back around—the cheers had escalated as Fudge, Minister of Magic, rose to his feet to announce the first contestant. Before she did, though, Hermione caught Fred's eye quite accidentally and discovered that the surge of anger that usually accompanied this was missing. She found herself staring at him awkwardly until Ginny obscured her view, cheering good-naturedly as Cedric stepped onto the field.

The First Task was a blur of nerves and anticipation until Harry entered the ring—his arrival was greeted with less cheering and more derisive booing than any of the other Champions, but he seemed to ignore it. As far as Hermione could tell, he performed the Summoning Charm perfectly, except for the fact that, well, his broom didn't _come_.

Hermione had to cover her eyes when the first blast of dragon fire came hurtling towards Harry; she peeked through her fingers to see, relieved, that he had dodged the Horntail's attack. Next to her, Ron was making slightly strangled noises every few minutes, when it looked as if Harry was about to be roasted alive.

Hermione had just about given up all hope and was silently urging Harry to just forfeit and get out of there safely when something suddenly whizzed over their heads at a dangerously high speed. Then Harry was in the air, and Hermione realized it had been the Firebolt. Cheers erupted in the stands as Harry maneuvered deftly around the Horntail's neck; he was leading it higher and higher...

And then, with a sudden dive, Harry left the Horntail in space and sped towards the nest, his hand outstretched for the golden egg. The blood was pounding in Hermione's ears, and Ron's knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the bench...

Harry's hand seized the egg securely and the stadium exploded with a roar. Hermione felt herself, as if in a dreamlike state, leap to her feet and join in the cheers, and even Ron was beside her, grinning, and looking as if he would like nothing more than to be friends with Harry again. The Horntail was quickly subdued as Harry circled the stands, beaming and holding the golden egg aloft. Hermione could barely hear Fudge announcing that Harry had been the fastest; she was being grabbed from behind by Ginny who was giddy with excitement.

"He did it!" Ron was shouting, "Wow, he actually did it!"

And Hermione, her smile so wide she felt it might split her face, locked eyes with Fred for the second time that day and found that she didn't mind at all.

* * *

"_What the bloody hell was that_?!"

Ron's outburst echoed unnaturally in the common room; all eyes turned towards him as Fred dropped Harry clumsily from his shoulders, his ears still ringing from the egg's piercing screech. With Ron's sudden arrival, the victorious mood in the room had vanished instantly.

Harry was staring at Ron with what looked like muted awe, and Hermione was eyeing the both of them with a sort of intensity that, to Fred, was rather frightening.

"All right, everyone," Fred ventured uncomfortably, "back to your knitting..."

"Yeah, It'll be awkward enough without you lot listening in," George finished.

The Gryffindors broke apart and started milling about the room, talking in low voices, but it was quite obvious that they were all trying to eavesdrop. Hermione, perched on the arm of the couch next to Ginny and Angelina, made no secret of it.

"I reckon you'd be mad to put your name in the Goblet." Ron was saying.

"Caught on, have you?" Harry retorted hotly. "Took you long enough."

Ron looked sheepish, opening his mouth to reply, but shutting it quickly. Harry wasn't facing them, but Fred saw something in the way he relaxed, something in the way his back lost its rigid quality, that assured him Ron was about to be forgiven.

"It's okay," Harry said suddenly. "Forget it."

"No," Ron protested, stupidly, in Fred's opinion, "I shouldn't have—"

Harry, who had turned, raised an eyebrow. "_Forget it_." He said definitively. There was a moment of silence before Ron smiled nervously.

"Guess I was a bit distraught..." He said, looking embarrassed, but Harry grinned.

"Guess you were," He agreed, and Ron's tentative smile turned into a full-fledged grin of his own. Sensing the end of the private conversation, the Gryffindors had again congregated around Harry, talking loudly.

"_Boys_," Fred heard Hermione whisper disbelievingly, and Angelina nodded her head sagely.

Then, before he knew it, George had shoved a tray full of custard creams into his hands and the party was in full swing.

Fred, who was fully aware that the creams had been bewitched to turn anyone who ate one into a canary, did his best not to hand them out to certain people—namely Angelina, who would kill him if she sprouted feathers, and Hermione, who would kill him if he did just about anything. Neville managed to get his hands on one though, and there was a momentary distraction as he transformed.

"Canary Creams!" George pitched as the room erupted in laughter, but Fred wasn't listening. He had just caught a glimpse of Hermione's smiling face, her teeth now perfectly aligned, her eyes sparkling.

_I think tonight's the night for reconciliations_, he thought mildly as he deposited the tray on a nearby end table and resolutely made his way over to where she was chatting with Ginny.

"Hermione," He said firmly, stopping in front of them. "Could I have a word?"

She looked a bit like a deer caught in the headlights (an odd muggle saying he'd learned from his father) as she stared up at him. Ginny lips had curled up slightly into a little secret smile, as if something had pleased her very much.

"A-alright," Hermione stammered, and slipped out of the portrait hole in front of him.

The Fat Lady swung shut behind them, and Hermione turned around to face him, her hands shoved in the back pockets of her jeans and a nervous look gracing her features.

"What is it?" She asked, sounding as if she wished to get whatever it was over with quickly. Fred ran a hand through his shockingly red hair self-consciously.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. Hermione looked taken aback.

"Oh," she said in a little voice.

"I'm not going to say that I think I was wrong for defending you, because then I'd be lying," he pressed on, "but I'm sorry that you got as involved as you did, and I'm sorry for reacting the way I did." He paused, looking remorseful. "To everything," he added.

Hermione didn't say anything for a moment, looking down at the ground uncertainly. Then she raised her head and said determinedly, "Me too."

Fred frowned. "For what?" He asked, bewildered.

Hermione smiled, looking a little devilish. "Well, I threw a shoe at you, didn't I?" She said teasingly, shifting her feet.

Fred couldn't help but laugh, she looked so pleased with herself. "Yeah, good aim you've got there." He conceded. "Sure you won't try out for Quidditch?"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Anyway," she continued, ignoring his last comment, "I was getting a little tired of avoiding you."

"Good," Fred grinned cheekily, "because I was getting a little tired of being avoided."

Hermione laughed, and Fred's smile grew; it was contagious. It felt very refreshing to be on good terms with her again. A comfortable silence fell over them, until the Fat Lady cleared her throat.

"Now, isn't this sweet!" She cooed.

"Hey!" Fred cried indignantly as Hermione jumped. The Fat Lady shrugged her shoulders and settled back into her chair, watching with barely concealed glee. Fred shot her a dirty look before turning back to Hermione, sticking out his hand.

"So," he said, smirking a little at her pink cheeks, "Friends?"

Hermione's blush receded and she took his hand, shaking it confidently.

"Friends," she said.

* * *

**Three Years Later.**

Harry awoke the next morning feeling rather ecstatic following his kiss with Ginny. Even the prospect of visiting Malfoy couldn't dampen his spirits when he went down to breakfast and was greeted with her smiling face.

Mr. Weasley went over the plan for the day as Mrs. Weasley set a heaping plate of eggs in front of Harry. He was to accompany Mr. Weasley to work that morning; the meeting with Malfoy was to take place at the Ministry.

"Normally you'd have to go to Azkaban to visit him," Mr. Weasley explained when he saw Harry's look of surprise. "But the Ministry made a special exception for you. They figured, with everything you've been through, you shouldn't have to make the trip."

Harry felt himself blush a little at the special treatment. Ron rolled his eyes, shoveling his breakfast into his mouth.

"Well, it's not as if Malfoy's exactly dangerous," He said around his eggs. Then he paused. "Is he?" He swallowed, looking wary.

"Yeah," Harry turned expectantly to Mr. Weasley. "I mean, they only chucked him in Azkaban because he was allied with Voldemort, right?"

Mr. Weasley raised his eyebrows. "You know him better than I do, Harry," he said wisely. "But the Ministry wouldn't have allowed him outside of the prison if he was a danger to anybody."

"The Ministry doesn't exactly have a great track record for keeping a hold on dangerous people," Harry pointed out darkly.

"He'll have guards," Mr. Weasley assured him. "You'll speak to him in one of the Courtrooms."

Ginny drew in a sharp breath, and everyone looked at her. She was frowning.

"In the Department of Mysteries?" She asked, with a harsh quality to her voice. Mr. Weasley nodded solemnly, understanding her reaction.

Harry's stomach swooped a bit, and he felt a little of his good mood ebb away. His last three visits to the Department of Mysteries had not been pleasant ones—the first occasion had been his hearing, where he'd had the pleasure of meeting Dolores Umbridge. The second had been to receive the prophecy, and had ended with Sirius's death. Then the third—retrieving the horcrux from Umbridge herself. He wasn't particularly happy about returning to the Department of Mysteries, and reliving the disagreeable memories that accompanied it.

"One of my favorite places," Ron said dryly, echoing Harry's sentiments as he rubbed his arm absentmindedly. No doubt he was recalling the giant brains that had attacked him.

"It's the best place for the two of you to meet," said Mr. Weasley sympathetically, "and it's the safest."

By the time Harry was ready to leave, his joy from that morning had quickly evaporated. The mention and thought of visiting the Department of Mysteries had painfully reminded him not only of Sirius's death, but the deaths of the others as well. Harry recalled his ponderings up in the attic. It was to be expected, he remembered with a heavy heart, that just about anything would drag up memories of those they had lost.

He warmed a bit when Ginny kissed him on the cheek, telling him to be careful, and couldn't help but grin at the protective glare that flashed across Ron's face. Then, Mr. Weasley threw a handful of Floo powder into the fire (Harry, being quite famous and well-respected, was no longer required to use the visitor's entrance), shouted, "The Ministry of Magic!" and stepped with Harry into the flames. The last thing Harry saw as he spun quickly in the green fire was Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny waving goodbye.

* * *

After Harry and Mr. Weasley vanished into the fire, a disquieting silence fell over the kitchen. Ginny continued to stare unyieldingly at the grate, until the flames died down into smoldering ashes. Mrs. Weasley had cleared her throat awkwardly before moving to wash the dishes.

"He'll be back soon, Gin," Ron said, trying to sound comforting and not really succeeding. They were all aware, and they had all realized, that when Harry did come back it would most likely be with bad news.

"I know," Ginny said softly, crossing her arms as she turned from the fireplace.

Ron scratched the back of his neck. "Seems like you two are back together," he ventured awkwardly.

Mrs. Weasley, who was currently clearing the butter dish from the table, paused with her hand outstretched. Ginny looked at Ron somewhat defiantly, daring him to be angry.

"So what if we are?" She said hotly.

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a loud sniff, courtesy of his mother. Mrs. Weasley straightened, abandoning the butter dish, and approached Ginny with her arms open.

"How _wonderful_, Ginerva!" She exclaimed in happiness, her eyes sparkling with tears as she pulled Ginny into a bone-crushing hug. Ron took a step backwards, a little surprised at his mother's reaction.

"Thanks, Mum." Ginny said warily, shooting Hermione a slightly terrified look over her mother's shoulder as she patted her on the back. "Look, it's alright—don't cry—"

Ron was starting to look a little disgusted until Mrs. Weasley pulled back, wiping her eyes on her apron.

"I'm sorry," she laughed shakily. "It's just... it's nice to hear some _good_ news for once. And the two of you were _made_ for each other, I'm just so happy you've found each other again—"

Hermione suddenly felt very much like she couldn't breathe. Ginny was smiling softly up at her mother, and Ron had a comic expression of both bewilderment and slight resentment on his face, but Hermione's chest was tight and the walls were closing in on her and she had to get _out_—

She turned abruptly and headed quickly up the stairs, not stopping when the others called her name worriedly. She took the steps two at a time, walked resolutely down the hallway, and slid into a room, pulling the door shut behind her and bursting into tears.

It just wasn't fair. The feeling had washed over her so unexpectedly when she saw Ginny's smile, Mrs. Weasley's happiness, Ron being protective. Burying her face in her hands, she slid down and crumpled on the floor, sobbing.

They deserved to be happy; they all did, but the Weasley's most of all... one child possessed, another mauled by a werewolf, one missing an ear and one who had spent the last seven years fighting alongside Harry Potter, always in danger of losing his life.

And one who _had_—

No. No, she wouldn't think about that. She'd thought about that enough.

Hermione sniffed, wiping her nose uncouthly on the sleeve of her sweater. Brushing tears from her cheeks, she looked around, the room slowly swimming into focus.

It was by some sadistic otherworldly power, Hermione thought bitterly, that she had ended up here. The walls were stripped bare and the room was filled with boxes, stacks of them with different labels in unintelligible writing. The boxes were all clustered around two neatly made beds; the covers looked to be gathering dust.

The twins' room.

Hermione's bottom lip trembled and tears sprang into her eyes again as she drew her knees up to her chest protectively. This was the last place she wanted to be. It just wasn't fair, she kept telling herself, that Mrs. Weasley was downstairs fawning over Ginny and Harry's relationship. A wave of jealousy crashed over her, she'd give anything to be as happy as Ginny was...

There was a soft knock on the door, making Hermione jump as it vibrated against her back. She wiped the tears from her face quickly.

"Who is it?" She choked out.

"It's me," said Ginny's voice outside. "Can I come in?"

Hermione scooted obligingly away from the door, and at the sound Ginny slid slowly into the room, closing the door softly behind her. She joined Hermione on the floor, leaning against one of the boxes, which Hermione could now see read _To Diagon Alley_.

"You alright?" Ginny stared worriedly at Hermione. "I thought I might find you in here..."

"I didn't mean to come," Hermione managed, her voice frustrated and watery. Ginny reached over and took her hand.

"I know you miss him," she said quietly. "We all do." She paused, seeming to search for the right words, only to realize that there were none. Hermione looked away, anywhere but Ginny's helpless face, and became vaguely aware that the room smelled like him. She bit back a sob.

"It's okay," Ginny said suddenly, and Hermione looked at her. It wasn't okay, and Ginny knew that, it _wasn't_—

But she saw that in Ginny's eyes, saw that she knew, saw that Ginny was just trying to comfort her, do all she could. Hermione felt a fresh stab of pain at the pity in those eyes, the understanding that Ginny's newly rekindled relationship with Harry was what had caused all this, the guilt...

"We're going to be okay," Ginny forced out as tears began to stream down her face, and she pulled Hermione into a fierce hug, and Hermione began to cry.

* * *

Draco Malfoy's wrists ached. It hadn't taken long for his guards to bring him to the Ministry of Magic, but he figured the chains that were handcuffing him were bewitched or something—they chafed unbearably.

The guards had led him, escorted by the newly appointed Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, to what seemed like the lowest level of the Ministry. The elevator had chimed "Department of Mysteries" in a cool female voice as the golden door had slid open, and Draco had vaguely remembered his father mentioning the place. It had been in his fifth year... the location of the prophecy the Dark Lord had been so eager to get his hands on.

Draco went over it all in his head as Kingsley marched down the hall and opened up a solid, sturdy looking door. He had to get what he was going to say organized in his mind; the option of slipping-up was nonexistent. He had to make sure he knew what would kill him and what wouldn't.

After his guards brought him in, holding his elbows vigilantly, they pushed him down into a hard backed chair, and more chains (Draco found his highly unnecessary and more than a little annoying) sprang out of nowhere to bind him to it. Kingsley crossed his arms and stared resolutely at the door, giving a little start when it opened, but it wasn't Harry. A young man with flaming-red hair and a face full of freckles slid into the room, clutching a quill and a roll of parchment, and looking apologetic.

"I'm so sorry, Minister," said Percy Weasley hurriedly, joining Kingsley. "I didn't mean to be late, but Hopkins had a question about—"

"It's quite alright, Weasley," Kingsley said reassuringly, but Draco didn't miss the tone of his voice, it was a little on edge. And he certainly didn't fail to notice the quick but unmistakable glare of hatred that Percy Weasley shot his way.

Well. Draco hoped that Percy'd be singing a different tune after he got a chance to speak with Harry.

They waited for about fifteen minutes—the longest fifteen minutes of Draco's life. He had gone over his story about twenty times, turning it around in his brain and searching for errors and faults. He was beginning to get a little irritated at Harry's lateness (though in truth, it was a few minutes before Harry was scheduled to arrive), when the door swung open, and Arthur Weasley strode in. Behind him, looking a little less haughty and a lot less confident, was Harry Potter.

Draco looked up and met Harry's eyes instantly. It was an odd feeling, to stare piercingly at the same boy he had tormented for six or so years, and not feel any animosity. Judging by the blank look on Harry's face, he was feeling the same way. Draco didn't have any anger for Harry anymore; he knew he had lost, and would always lose to the Chosen One. Now the only important thing was righting what he had done wrong, and he had to, _had_ to make Harry believe him, at all costs.

"Good to see you, Harry." Kingsley was saying, shaking Harry's hand. Percy and his father shared a tight smile before Percy too grasped Harry's hand and Arthur greeted Kingsley in turn. With all pleasantries out of the way, Kingsley faced Draco, who was still fastened to the chair, and looked at him expectantly.

"Well," Kingsley said flatly, "Proceed."

It was so abrupt that Draco, caught off guard, didn't exactly know how to. Harry had shoved his hands into his pockets awkwardly and was staring guardedly at him. Draco glanced shiftily from his guards, to Kingsley, to Percy and Mr. Weasley, and back to Harry again.

"I wanna talk to him alone." He blurted out suddenly.

Kingsley was so taken aback that he jerked slightly, and Percy, his quill poised over the blank parchment, seemed to completely forget that he was supposed to be taking notes. Arthur's face had become almost thunderous, and Draco could have sworn he heard one of his guards utter a low, disbelieving chuckle.

"You have no privileges." Kingsley said, his deep voice quiet and deadly. "You were lucky enough to be granted this meeting; you won't get any more favors—"

"It's okay."

Everyone turned to Harry, who was staring at Draco with something akin to acceptance. Mr. Weasley had opened his mouth to speak, but the Minister beat him to the punch.

"I'm afraid I really should be present for this, Harry." He said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. "And the guards..."

"Those chains have him pretty well tied up," Harry interrupted reasonably. "Don't you think you could make an exception, Minister?"

Kingsley frowned. "I hope you don't think you have to keep secrets from me, Harry." He said.

"I don't." Harry shook his head. "Only Malfoy seems a bit keen to tell me whatever he's got to say in private, and I don't think he'll say until it's just me. I'm guessing this is big," he turned to Draco, and Draco nodded, "so I think it's more important that I hear it, whatever the circumstances."

There was silence in the high-ceilinged, echoing chamber until Kingsley spoke, sounding as if he very much disapproved.

"Very well," he told Harry, "He's all yours."

Kingsley gestured to the guards and they moved, a little reluctantly, to the door. This was nothing compared to the trepidation with which Mr. Weasley and Percy left, both of them sending cautionary glances at Harry over their shoulders as they exited the courtroom.

The door slammed. Harry turned back to Draco, fingering his wand in his back pocket.

"Alright," he said sharply. "What is it?"

Now that they were alone, Draco felt a bit more self-assured. His signature smirk gracing his features, he looked up at Harry.

"Here's the thing," He said lightly, as if it didn't bother him in the slightest, "I've taken an Unbreakable Vow not to tell you this."

Harry's features seemed to freeze for a moment, and then they settled on rage.

"Then what the hell am I doing here?!" He shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Be quiet, Potty, this is important. You said so yourself." He snapped back, and Harry glared at him.

"I told myself you wouldn't be so stupid as to drag me down here to insult me," Harry said, "But I guess I gave you too much credit—"

"Shut up, will you?" Draco said loudly, and Harry, surprisingly, shut his mouth. "I'm _trying_ to tell you, I've just got to do it in a way that doesn't break the vow. You'll know if I say something wrong, as I'll suddenly drop dead."

Harry looked a little worried, and Draco felt like laughing. After years of making Harry Potter squirm, the guy was still saintly enough to fret about his enemies' well-being.

"Don't look so put out, Potts." Draco said cleverly. "I'm just one more problem out of your hair."

Harry looked indignant. "That's not true—"

"Bollocks," Malfoy said harshly. "You know it is."

"Look," Harry held up his hands. "I know we've never gotten along in the past, and you've done some really idiotic, really evil things—"

Draco groaned. He'd had just about enough of Savior Potter's routine. He fixed Harry with his most frustrated glare, and Harry, for the second time, closed his mouth on cue.

"That's better," Draco said. "Now, let's see... how do I put this..."

Draco pondered his choice of words for a moment, vaguely aware that Harry seemed fit to burst. He arrived at something that he hoped would convey the message, without being too revealing, but he still cringed as he said it.

"The wall did fall but it didn't get it all."

It was probably one of the stupidest things Draco could have come up with. Then again, he didn't have that many choices.

Harry seemed to agree, making a little strangled-sounding noise in the back of his throat. "That's all?" He said, his voice borderline shrill.

"Think about it, Potter." Draco retorted.

"I'm thinking," Harry said, annoyed, "and I still don't know what it means."

Draco sighed, so much for _that_ plan. "If you weren't such a dunce, Potter," he said tiredly, "You'd be halfway out the door by now."

Harry frowned at him. "What are you trying to tell me?" He asked slowly.

"It's no bloody use," Draco said in a defeated, albeit irritated voice. "You're never going to get it." He paused.

"I'll have to show you," he looked at Harry pointedly.

Harry started, looking suspicious. "What d'you mean? The Unbreakable Vow..."

"...Says I can't tell you, but mentions nothing about _showing_ you," Draco finished, sounding casual. "And trust me, this information is stuff you can't live without, so..." He trailed off, rattling his chains expectantly.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You want me to get you out of Azkaban." He realized.

"No," Draco said, speaking as if to a small child, "You _need_ me to be out of Azkaban."

Harry looked outraged. "So this was all a ploy to barter for your freedom?" He asked incredulously. "_Is_ there even an Unbreakable Vow? Does this vital information that I can't live without even _exist_?"

"Yes!" Draco shouted, surprised at how serious he sounded. "Believe me, Harry—" and with the use of his first name, Harry suddenly looked as though he _did_ believe him—"this is something you _want_ to know, something you'll thank me for, I assure you. I ran away because I was stupid and I was selfish, but most of all, I ran away because I've done a lot of horrible things and I have to make up for them. _Not everything is as it seems_."

He finished, breathing hard. He might have imagined it, but Harry's expression might have had a tinge of respect. Then, quite suddenly, he was sure he hadn't imagined it.

"Alright," Harry said calmly, turning towards the door. "I'll see what I can do."

_end chapter two._


	4. Chapter Three

**Title: **Not Everything Is As It Seems

**Author: **bdrake07

**A/N: **Blech. Okay, so I really like the flashback on this one, but as for the present time section... eww. And it was the big moment and everything, and it's just... I dunno. I don't like it. Hope you guys are satisfied, because _I'm_ not.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter.

**

* * *

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**Chapter Three**

The rest of Fred's sixth year passed rather uneventfully, with the exception of a few moments that just couldn't have been ignored.

The first was the Yule Ball, a royal debacle in his opinion. Sure, Angelina had been a fantastic date, and they had ended up dancing late past midnight... late enough, in fact, to enter the common room just as Hermione and Ron were having a blazing row. Fred found this to be an inopportune moment to mention to George that it was really _Hermione_ he had been keen on taking, that he had felt that hot, jealous pressure in his chest again at the sight of her with Krum, and looking so beautiful... no, that hadn't seemed very appropriate, what with Hermione sobbing over the fact that _Ron_ hadn't taken her to the ball.

Fred had managed to push those feelings aside until the Second Task reared its ugly head. He found it really infuriating, actually, that no one had warned him that Ron, his own brother, ran the risk of being knocked out and dumped into a lake. And it was only natural to worry about Hermione as well... they _were_ friends, after all.

George had pointed out snidely that Fred's face had become murderous upon realizing that Hermione was the one thing Krum "treasured most". Then again, what did George know, really?

And then, quite suddenly, they had arrived at the Third Task. It was, by far, the most boring of all the challenges, for the occupants of the stadium had nothing to stare at but a massive green hedge, the champions having vanished into the depths of the maze long ago. Fred sat sandwiched between George and Hermione, finding that he was quite glad Ron was separated from her by Ginny.

Hermione, however, did not seem to be enjoying herself. Ten minutes into the task, Dean and Seamus had started chucking bits of food at them from higher up in the stands, and Ginny, Fred, and George had retaliated with their own smuggled desserts.

Fred sat back down from lobbing an entire cauldron cake at Seamus to find Hermione white-faced and jittery, her legs doing a little nervous jig.

"C'mon, Herms," Fred said good-naturedly, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "There's nothing to worry about. Harry'll be fine."

Hermione shook her head, looking as if she were in a trance. "No," she said, "that maze is dangerous. I mean, Harry doesn't even know what's in it, how can he possibly be prepared?"

"Duck!" Someone cried, and Fred obliged, pulling Hermione with him as a pumpkin pasty whizzed over them, hitting Neville Longbottom squarely in the back of the head.

"Look," Fred said as they sat back up again, "there's nothing you can do about it now. Harry's in the maze, that's that. So why not try to enjoy yourself?"

He suddenly noticed that Hermione had little pieces of treacle tart in her hair, and he was seized with a sudden desire to brush them away. She beat him to it, thankfully before he could embarrass himself, pulling them out with a look of slight disgust.

"This isn't exactly my idea of fun," she said wryly, jerking her head in the direction of Dean and Seamus, both of whom were now brandishing licorice wands like swords. Fred snorted loudly, and he was pleased to see that along with regaining the healthy color to her face, Hermione was now grinning.

"There, you see?" He grinned back smugly. "You _are_ having fun."

Hermione shrugged indecisively, but she was still smiling. Behind her, Ron was brushing cauldron cake off his shirt and muttering, "Where the bloody hell did they get all this food?"

Fred was just about to open his mouth and suggest to Hermione that they mount some sort of surprise attack on Ron when a scream pierced the air. Hermione's head snapped to stare, terrified, at the maze, and all those engaged in the food fight froze, most of them in mid throw.

An uneasy silence fell over the arena as everyone turned to look at the massive green hedge that had previously been so uninteresting. Ginny sat down abruptly and took Hermione's hand.

"It's okay," she said shakily. "That was a girl screaming. That wasn't Harry."

Hermione's other hand covered her mouth, and she was again shaking her head, hysterically this time.

"It doesn't matter," she said, her face returning to a deathly pale. "It's dangerous, someone got hurt, I _knew_ this would happen..."

A shower of red sparks appeared high in the sky, marking the spot where a champion had fallen.

"It's alright," Fred muttered absentmindedly, gazing grimly at the maze. "They're going to get them now..."

The search party returned a few minutes later, and everyone in front of them stood up to get a better view. Fred and George got up on the bleachers, craning their necks to see who had returned.

"It's Fleur," Fred said, looking back down at Hermione, Ginny, and Ron, who was looking a little sick. "She's fine, she just looks shaken up... they're taking her to Madam Pomfrey..."

"Bloody hell!" George exclaimed in surprise. "They've got Krum, too! Blimey, that just leaves Harry and Cedric!"

Fred looked back over the heads of the spectators and, sure enough, Viktor Krum was stumbling vacantly towards the hospital tent. Fred caught a glimpse of Dumbledore, who was watching the proceedings with an almost angry look on his face.

The rest of the onlookers seemed to have realized that the final two champions left standing were Hogwarts students, for as it became clear that Fleur and Krum were not seriously injured, a cheer sounded from the Gryffindor section of the stands, apparently instigated by Lee Jordan.

"YES!!" Lee bellowed, flourishing a red and gold banner and pumping his fist in the air. "GO HARRY!" A loud roar emanated from the crowd around him, quickly combated by boos from the Slytherins, and some of the Hufflepuffs.

Fred sat down uneasily, thinking of Dumbledore's expression. As the others around them took their seats, he could see a group of teachers conversing agitatedly, Professor McGonagall and Madam Maxime included. Professor Moody, however, was eyeing the maze quite complacently.

"It's a Hogwarts champion now, either way," George said, rubbing his hands together. This didn't seem to reassure Hermione, who was still gripping her face; her fingernails looked to be digging into her skin. George, along with the majority of the other students, didn't seem to have noticed the worry of the teachers.

Something about all of this was causing Fred's stomach to twist uncomfortably. He had a rather ominous feeling; something bad seemed destined to happen...

It was a while before something did, and when it happened, it was so sudden that there was a moment where no one noticed. Chatter had broken out among the students again, but Fred had been keeping his eye on the section where the staff was sitting. Fleur and Krum had now joined them, looking haggard and dirty, wrapped in cloaks. The arena was loud and distracting, and if Fred hadn't been looking in that direction, he might have missed it.

There was a flash of light, brilliant, white and fleeting, and Fred jerked his head to stare at the middle of the field—

Harry Potter slammed to the ground in the booming stadium, one hand gripping a large object Fred couldn't make out, the other the Triwizard Cup. There was a moment of silence before everyone became aware, and then...

The stadium exploded, the band began playing, the students stood up. Ron and Ginny and George were cheering, and Hermione was sobbing, tears of happiness running down her face, and Fred chose this moment to pull her into a bone-crushing hug, his stomach swooping when she returned it with equal gusto. Fred had never felt so happy in his life—Harry had just won the Triwizard Tournament, and he was holding Hermione Granger in his arms...

They were shoving their way past the other students, halfway down the bleacher stairs when Fleur screamed.

The band stopped playing, the trumpet trailing off in a would-be comedic sort of way. Smiles faded from faces to be replaced with confusion, and Hermione stopped dead, Fred running into her from behind.

And everything, in a split second, changed.

A circle of people had surrounded Harry—Dumbledore, Fudge, McGonagall—and he was yelling something, clutching something fiercely.

"He's back!" Harry sobbed. "Voldemort's back!"

Fred's heart seemed to have stopped beating. Surely he had heard that wrong... but then there was Fudge's voice, low, but somehow carrying.

"Everyone get back!" He pushed his way out of the circle. "A boy's just been killed."

Hermione took a stumbling step backwards, her back connecting with Fred's chest solidly as Cedric Diggory's lifeless body appeared between the figures standing around Harry. Dumbledore was kneeling beside him, trying to make Harry let go but Harry wouldn't let go... Cho stood on the field, crying, her hands covering her mouth...

"_Let me through_!" Came an anguished yell, and Cedric's father, Amos Diggory, shoved his way through the crowd towards Cedric's prone form. "That's my boy, _that's my son_!"

Harry was still crying but Moody was lifting him up, pulling him away... someone was clinging to Fred's shirt, someone was burying their face in his chest...

Fred looked down, in a kind of trance. Hermione had turned and fisted her hands in his shirt, her tears already soaking through...

Fred wrapped his arms around Hermione, drawing her closer to him, buried his face in her hair, and started to cry.

* * *

**Three Years Later.**

Albus Dumbledore knew he was just a portrait.

He knew he was just the remnants of a long gone wizard—but a rather clever one, and he had been able to retain some of his intelligence. He had known to stay oddly quiet as the Death Eaters removed him from the wall in the Headmaster's office, shortly after he had spoken with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. He had known to keep still, never wavering from his amused smile or signature twinkling eyes behind his half-moon spectacles.

There were more important things at work now, and it was the least of everyone's worries if Minerva McGonagall noticed his likeness missing from her new office (and he had no doubt that she would become the new Headmistress of Hogwarts... he was, after all, quite clever). No, right now what mattered was the plan of one Cobra Riddle, and just what part her two prisoners played in it.

Dumbledore looked down at the room from his place, hanging on the wall. It very much resembled a prison. There were two cells, both separated from the rest of the room by wrought iron bars reaching from floor to ceiling. One of the occupants hardly ever left his bed. He had never spoken, just moved about on occasion, looking like a pile of dirty rags. When he had first seen Dumbledore's portrait, a spark of recognition had flickered in his eyes, but Dumbledore thought it would be wise to stay frozen... he had no intention of speaking to this man—not just yet.

It was the occupant of the other cell that interested Dumbledore. Dumbledore's picture, still in its golden frame, hung just over the bed, and he found himself staring quite often at the comatose figure that lay below him. The boy hadn't moved since the Death Eaters had brought him to Malfoy Manor, but a different Death Eater had come in to check on him every day.

Dumbledore, clever as he was, as much intelligence as he had retained, was not quite sure at present just what Cobra Riddle had in mind for these two. He had only learned one thing during his stay at the Manor, and it was something that had surprised him—and he was not an easy man to surprise.

Just recently, Albus Dumbledore had come to the conclusion that Cobra Riddle was Lord Voldemort's daughter.

This had bothered him immensely. He had first thought of Harry, of what this would mean for the boy who had just triumphed over so much. But soon he began to focus on the boy below him. There was not much Dumbledore could do, being a portrait, to assist anyone, except to give advice.

And when the boy woke, nearly two days since the Battle at Hogwarts, that was exactly what Dumbledore did.

* * *

Fred Weasley was having a very odd dream.

It had all started at the battle, because he couldn't be sure, really, if that was a dream or if it wasn't. Fred had been laughing at Percy's jibes at the Minister (You-Know-Who's lackey, more like). Then, it seemed, he had switched abruptly to dreamland with what felt like a sharp blow to the head. And suddenly, there were something like eighteen thousand Arnold the Pygmy Puffs dancing around Harry's ankles as he held the Quidditch cup aloft, saying, "I've done it, I've won!" And Fred remembered feeling very happy that the team had won, only he hadn't helped them because he had been banned from the game for life by a gigantic pink toad only minutes earlier, but he forgot that quite suddenly because Hermione was sashaying over to him, singing "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love".

And then he woke up.

The first thing that greeted him was a searing pain in his chest. His eyes had snapped open in shock; he hadn't remembered that happening... and he was suddenly looking up at a gloomy stone ceiling in a room lit only by candlelight.

He hadn't remembered being brought here, either.

He sat up quickly, immediately regretting it. Apparently his chest wasn't the only part of him that had been hurt—his hand felt his forehead gingerly and felt a bandage wrapped around his head. Putting his face in his hands, Fred closed his eyes. _What was going on?_

The Battle at Hogwarts... that was the last thing he remembered. He was sure now that it wasn't a dream. Percy had really been dueling Thicknesse, and then he must really _have_ been hit on the head...

Someone cleared their throat nearby. Fred's hands flew from his face as he jumped, spinning to look at the origin of the sound... the wall?

Then his eyes traveled upward, and he was forced to do a double-take.

Albus Dumbledore's comfortably smiling face looked back at him from behind his glinting spectacles, the tips of his fingers placed carefully together.

"Hello, Fred," he said.

Fred knew the appropriate response to this statement, but couldn't seem to make the words come out of his mouth. He stared at Dumbledore with an expression of increasing bewilderment. Dumbledore—or, that is to say, Dumbledore's _portrait_—looked at him with mere amusement.

"It's quite alright, Fred," he said reassuringly. "Your reaction is understandable. You have, of course, not seen me since long before my death."

Fred opened and closed his mouth several times, fancying he looked a bit like a goldfish. Dumbledore smiled kindly.

"But surely," he continued, "You noticed the portraits of all the other Hogwarts Headmasters and Headmistresses when you visited my office in your seventh year. You were preoccupied, perhaps, with the news of your father's injury, but am I right in assuming that you can recall them now?"

Fred felt himself nod.

"Good," Dumbledore said. "Every Headmaster or Headmistress has a portrait of them hung in the office after they die. Mine was simply..." he paused, and Fred thought he saw the shadow of a smirk on the older man's face. "...stolen." He finished.

"Sir..." Fred heard himself croak.

"Ah!" Cried Dumbledore happily, his eyes twinkling. "You have regained the ability to speak! You wish, perhaps, to know where you are and why you are here?"

Fred nodded again, warily. He had forgotten Dumbledore's uncanny gift of practically reading minds.

"As far as I have surmised," Dumbledore was saying, "We are in Malfoy Manor. In the depths of the Manor, I expect."

Fred drew in a sharp breath, looking around. "Why?" he managed.

"That is unclear at this present moment." Dumbledore said wisely. "I'm afraid I haven't a clue why you or I were brought here after the Battle at Hogwarts. You were injured when they brought you in," he gestured towards Fred's bandaged head, "and you didn't wake for two days."

Fred stared at Dumbledore, still feeling unable to form a complete sentence. Everything seemed to be happening at once, and a whirlwind of thoughts was swirling around in his mind, making him dizzy... why was he in Malfoy Manor? Why had the Death Eaters brought him here?

And then, quite suddenly, he started, realizing what he should have asked ages ago, when he had first woken up.

"Did he do it?" He turned to Dumbledore, surprised at how quickly the words came out of his mouth, and how excited he sounded. "Harry... did he do it? Did he kill You-Know-Who?"

Dumbledore scrutinized Fred for a moment, his face impassive. Then he said, "Yes."

Fred let out a loud, relieved laugh. It was over, You-Know-Who was gone... things could go back to being normal...

His smile suddenly faded. He frowned.

"I don't understand," He muttered, not really to Dumbledore in particular. "What the hell am I doing here? If You-Know-Who is finished, why are there still Death Eaters?"

"Some have temporarily evaded capture," Dumbledore replied quietly. "They've rallied under someone else."

"Who?" Fred narrowed his eyes, suspecting Lucius Malfoy.

"Voldemort's daughter." Dumbledore said gravely. "Cobra Riddle."

All the breath seemed to leave Fred's body and he stared at Dumbledore stupidly. Voldemort's daughter... since when did Voldemort have a daughter?

"My thoughts exactly," Dumbledore nodded, seeming to read Fred's mind again. The older man was staring at him piercingly, as if he expected him to say something, but Fred had found himself once again incapable of speech. He turned away, frustrated. Again and again, the same question kept materializing in his throbbing head—what did any of this have to do with _him_?

Fred stared across the room at what looked to be a dirty pile of rags heaped on a bed in the other cell. A rather terrible realization had just struck him, but he couldn't bring himself to ask Dumbledore. He had been hurt in the Battle at Hogwarts. But who, if anyone, had been _killed_?

Was Ron, who always stayed by Harry's side, always staring danger in the face, dead? Was, he thought with a lurch in his stomach, _Hermione_? George, and his parents, and Ginny, and Bill, and Fleur, and Percy... were they alright?

Rather suddenly, Fred's eyes widened. The pile of rags in the other cell had moved, shifting until they lifted off the bed, and Fred realized with shock that he had not been staring at a heap of dirty laundry, but at a person.

But his surprise at discovering that he was sharing this jail with another prisoner was nothing compared to the astonishment he felt when the figure turned around. Rufus Scrimgeour, wizened and weary-looking, stared back at him blearily through tired eyes.

"_Minister_?!" Fred asked incredulously.

Scrimgeour didn't say anything, but simply looked at Fred with an odd expression on his face before turning away. This didn't really affect Fred, as he was too shocked to really feel anything. He turned back to Dumbledore, bewilderment written in his features.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Fred blurted out in a panicky voice. "He's supposed to be dead, why isn't he dead?"

"I haven't the foggiest," said Dumbledore mildly. But Fred suspected, as always, that the former headmaster was withholding valuable information. Fred buried his face in his hands for the second time, rubbing at his eyes until he saw spots.

"I know it's difficult," Dumbledore said in an infuriatingly calm voice, "not to know what is going on—"

"Who's dead?" Fred said sharply, suddenly. "Who died?"

"I don't know." Dumbledore said quietly. Fred's frustration bubbled up again. He knew somewhere inside him that none of this was Dumbledore's fault. After all, he was just a portrait, just a shadow of the fantastical man he had once been. But there were so many things that didn't make sense, all of them whirling around in Fred's head at a dizzying speed. And everywhere he turned, he just found more questions lying in wait.

He heard a sudden click and his head snapped up, staring at the bolt of the door, which had just jerked upwards. Someone was entering the room. In the other cell, Scrimgeour was sitting once again on his bed, but his back was rigid and his expression alert.

A woman slid into the room. She was short and slight, with jet black hair that seemed to disappear into the gloom behind her. Her dark eyes flashed unusually in the light from the candles in brackets on the wall.

"Oh," she said, in a playful voice unsuited for her age, "You're awake." She stared at Fred, and he felt a bit unnerved. He wanted to ask her what he was doing here, but again he found that nothing would come out of his mouth.

"I'm Cobra," she said personably. Fred stared at her in astonishment... here was Voldemort's daughter, acting perfectly lovely.

"But I'm sure Dumbledore already told you everything he knows," she continued. "You probably have a few questions, but I'm really not in the mood to answer them right now." She waved her hand at him flippantly, while at the same time pulling a set of keys from the folds of her ragged skirt. She was starting to remind Fred horribly of Bellatrix Lestrange and her insane mannerisms, and he couldn't help but shrink back as she inserted an iron key into the lock on his cell.

"Right now, we're a bit busy." She was saying. "So you're going to come along with me and help me with a teensy, little something."

She was speaking to him as if to a five year old, but there was something menacing in her words. As she stepped into the cell, Fred pressed his back against the wall, cornered, and she laughed derisively.

"Don't be scared," she commanded in a sugary voice that was actually rather frightening. Her hand, thin and adorned with jeweled rings, gripped his upper arm fiercely, her long nails digging into Fred's skin through the fabric of his t-shirt. She smiled up at him, and he was suddenly aware that her wand was pointing straight at his aching chest. "Don't worry," she cooed.

"It'll only hurt for a moment."

_end chapter three._


End file.
